I never knew death until I saw the bombing of a refugee campCraters filled with disfigured ankles and splattered torsos But no sign of a face, the only impression a fading screamI never understood painUntil a seven-year-old girl clutched my handStared up at me with soft brown eyes, waiting for answersBut I didn't have any I had muted breath and dry pens in my back pocketThat couldn't fill pages of understanding or resolutionIn her other hand she held the key to her grandmother's houseBut I couldn't unlock the cell that caged her older brothersThey said, we slingshot dreams so the other side will feel our father's presenceA craftsmanBuilt homes in areas where no one was buildingAnd when he fell, he was silentA .50 caliber bullet tore through his neck shredding his vocal cordsToo close to the wallHis hammer must have been a weaponHe must have been a weaponEncroaching on settlement hills and demographicsSo his daughter studies mathematicsSeven explosions times eight bodies Equals four Congressional resolutionsSeven Apache helicopters times eight Palestinian villagesEquals silence and a second NakbaOur birthrate minus their birthrateEquals one sea and 400 villages re-erectedOne state plus two peoples…and she can't stop cryingNever knew revolution or the proper equationTears at the paper with her fingertipsSearching for answersBut only has teachersLooks up to the sky and see stars of David demolishing squalor with hellfire missiles She thinks back words and memories of his last hug before he turned and fellNow she pumps dirty water from wells, while settlements divide and conquerAnd her father's killer sits beachfront with European vernacularShe thinks back words, while they think backwardsOf obscene notions and indigenous confusionThis our land!, she saidShe's seven years oldThis our land!, she saidAnd she doesn't need a history book or a schoolroom teacherShe has these walls, this sky, her refugee campShe doesn't know the proper equationBut she sees my dry pensNo lo...
